that will enable him to support her as she deserves to be supported. The
girl declines to wait. A much older man--a great, trampling brute of a
man, possessed of wealth and fame, and a social altitude positively
vertiginous--asks her to marry him. She, woman-weak, yields to the
temptation of all the gauds and baubles that go with his name, and
marries him. Indeed, few young men at the university ever have as valid
an excuse for becoming broken-hearted misogynists as the half-back. He
would he faithful, of course, though she was not. And some day, years
later, it might he, she would come hack broken-hearted to him, confess
the fatal mistake that she had made; seek his protection, perhaps,
against the cruelties of the monster she had come to hate. He would
forgive her, console her--in a perfectly moral way, of course--and for a
while, they would just be friends. Then the wicked husband would
conveniently die, and after long years, they could find happiness.

It made a very pretty idea to entertain during the semi-somnolent hours
of dull lectures and while he was waiting for the last possible moment
to leap out of bed in the morning and make a dash for his first
recitation. Written down on paper, the imaginary conversation between
them would have filled volumes.

But to be called actually to the telephone--she had telephoned to him a
thousand times in the dream--and hear her say, just as in the dream she
had said--"This is Rose; do you remember me?" was enough to make even
his herculean knees knock together. To be sure her voice wasn't choked
with sobs, but you never could tell over the telephone.

What did she want to do? Confront her husband with him, perhaps, this
very afternoon, and say, "Here is the man I love?" And what would he do
then? He'd have to back her up, of course--and until his next mouth's